How Family Should Behave
by Skalidra
Summary: Everyone fears something, and Aizen knows exactly what every 'something' is when it comes to the espada. All it takes is a small mistake to get your worst fears turned in on you, and Grimmjow screws up more than most. - Grimmjow-centric, canon universe. No pairings. Warnings for: hyperventilation, panic attacks, claustrophobia, mental torture, trauma, and self-injury.


"Oh, go fuck yourself."

He knows he's fucked up the moment the words leave his mouth. His throat clenches tight, and he risks a look to his left, at their leader. He can feel the gazes of the other espada at the table, tense silence filling the air, but all that matters is the coolly amused dark brown eyes that meet his. His lord watches him for a moment, head resting on one fist, before giving a soft smile that somehow manages to be supremely friendly and fucking terrifying at the same time.

He swallows, hands clenching in the fabric of his white hakama, and lowers his gaze under the look. It's one of the few times he wishes his hair were longer, so he'd have something, _anything_, to hide behind, however flimsy. Fuck, why does his tongue have a mind of its own? Why can he never just keep his mouth shut and let Aizen prattle on in peace? The insult hadn't even been _aimed_ at Aizen, it was a reaction to some ass kissing that Ulquiorra had spouted, but that doesn't fucking matter.

"Language, Grimmjow," their lord says smoothly, before continuing on with whatever plan he'd been discussing.

He knows better than to take the dismissal as forgiveness, or mercy - Aizen doesn't have either of those things - it's just one more way their lord keeps them in line. Aizen will deal with him on the shinigami's own time, whenever he decides that is, and he'll just have to wait until the moment comes. It probably won't be long, Aizen likes to make examples of members of his 'family' who screw up.

It's kind of sick, the way the shinigami forces them together, forcing them to act like they're one cohesive group - and they're fucking not, not in the slightest - but no one is going to defy Aizen quite so directly. There's no way Aizen actually believes it, but he's pretty sure that demanding they behave like they're family - or at least close friends - amuses the shinigami. It also gives the sadistic bastard a reason to punish them, when they inevitably fall out of character. However Aizen might preach from his throne, express disappointment over their shortcomings, he knows damn well the shinigami _likes_ torturing them.

If you can call it torture.

Somehow Aizen knows all their fears, all the guarded secrets they keep from everyone, and he uses it to ruthless effect. An espada returning from 'discipline' is always quiet, withdrawn, but rarely bears the marks of any actual injury. It's fucked up, and it both frustrates and unnerves him that just the thought of what Aizen's going to do is enough to wake cold sweat on his back, that it _terrifies_ him.

He almost misses the end of the meeting, in his self-induced spiral into fear, and nearly jerks his head up when the others start to stand. He glances to Aizen, finding dark brown eyes fixed on him, and gets the impression that he's not going _anywhere_. Aizen's small smile is still there, and it keeps him down in his chair as the others leave, until the door closes with an echoing boom. He's unable to control the instinctual stillness, the silent prayer that if he just doesn't move, doesn't threaten, the predator looking at him will lose interest.

But of course Aizen won't, he never does.

"That wasn't nice of you, Grimmjow," his lord says softly, a vaguely reprimanding tone in his voice, "you should be less abrasive to the others, we're all in this together, after all." He doesn't speak, doesn't move, steadfastly keeps his gaze on the table and safely away from Aizen. The shinigami stands, pressing a gentle hand onto his shoulder. "With me," he orders softly, stepping away.

He follows Aizen to standing, haltingly, trying to postpone things for just a few moments longer. The walk to the door, hidden in the shadows of one corner of their meeting room, always feels too short, and Aizen waits at it for him. They're the same height, he's even got more muscle than Aizen does and he knows it, but with the vibration of power in the air, Aizen still manages to feel like a titan next to him. His lord pulls the door open, holding it aside, and he only hesitates a moment before stepping through. He has to fight back the urge to run, but that's easier than it probably should be. He already knows it won't work, that Aizen will catch him before he's taken more than a step away.

He keeps his gaze on the floor, not raising it to look at the assortment of items in the room. Not that he has to. The things in this room have always been here, since the first time he was dragged in, kicking and snarling, and they've never changed or even moved positions. There are other doors, leading to places he's never seen, and he's pretty sure they're places he never wants to see. He doesn't want to know what Aizen does to the other espada, he can barely stomach knowing what the shinigami does to _him_.

The door shuts, and Aizen brushes past him. The touch of his lord's shoulder to his makes him flinch, even though the contact lasts only a fraction of a second. He doesn't look up, vainly hoping - with a terrified resignation - that if he just doesn't _see_ the instrument of Aizen's punishments, it won't be real this time. It won't happen. The clatter of stone against the marble floor is familiar, enough to send an ice cold chill down his spine.

"Grimmjow, come here."

He finally looks up at Aizen, his head jerking in small rises. He knows what his lord is standing over, what is about to happen, and he also knows that obeying would make it easier. If he crossed the room to Aizen, let the shinigami do what he wanted, surely it would be easier this time. But he can't.

Fear freezes him to the spot, an all-consuming terror that he has absolutely no control over. His breath comes sharp and fast, and the pounding of his heart is rapid, rabbit-fast. Aizen's brown eyes narrow, and a small shiver shakes him at the threat in his lord's gaze. Running won't help, running _never_ helps, but he can't make himself step forward and submit. Not because he's stubborn, not because he'll fight Aizen until the day he dies, but because he knows what waits, and what waits makes all his instincts kick on in full force. Fight or flight, run, _run_.

There's no warning.

One moment Aizen is standing across the room, and the next the shinigami has him by a handful of his hair, dragging him forward. He fights, he can't _stop_, a snarl twisting his lips at the pure panic in his blood. He shouts and struggles, clawing at Aizen's skin and doing his very best to get the _hell_ out of the bastard's grip, even if that means losing everything Aizen has that grip on. The shinigami throws him to the floor, like a toy, and his side hits an edge of stone with a nasty crack. It steals the breath from him, and he can't do more than heave, laid over the rim of the source of his terror. A foot impacts with his hip, knocking his bottom half in, and he lands awkwardly on the abused side, struggling to breathe.

There's the rasp of stone, and he gets enough air back to gasp out a desperate, "_**No**_," before it slides over him, leaving him in total darkness.

He goes still for a single, brief moment, heart stopping in his chest, before the panic reasserts itself. He writhes, slamming himself against the stone sides and top of his prison, heedless of the pain in his side or his hip, not noticing or caring about the bruises he's leaving on his skin from his attempts to escape.

"Son of a _bitch_," he shouts, reiatsu burning in the space around him, freed by his fear and anger. "Let me _go_, let me _out!_ You _bastard!_" His voice reverberates into his own ears, bounced back by the stone surrounding him on all sides, and he lets loose a scream of desperation and rage.

He fights until the anger drains from him, and all that's left is the bright terror, until his knuckles are laid open to splintered bone and the smell of blood clogs his nostrils and clings to the back of his throat. Then he trembles, eyes wide but unseeing in the pure black. His breath comes in sharp gasps, and no matter how much he breathes he can't get enough air. He curls in on himself as much as he can, turning to his side and clutching at his chest with his mangled hands, heaving for air he can't get. Tears gather in his eyes at the aching pain.

He can feel the pressure, is _absolutely_ certain the box is getting smaller around him, and gives a strangled cry of terror. There _is_ no escape, he's been sealed in this _fucking_ box to die. Any moment he'll run out of air, he'll suffocate inside this damn stone coffin, and he'll never see the sky or sun again. His breath comes shorter and shorter, throat closing around it, tingling numbness spreading over his lower arms. Swirling spots invade the black, and he stops being able to think beyond the need to breathe, beyond the panicked need for air.

He's dying, he _has_ to be.

He lashes out, clawing at the stone with every ounce of strength he has, scraping his nails across the unyielding surface. It doesn't give, there's only the awful noise that slices through what little mind the panic has left him. He screams with what air he has, sharp bursts that only serve to make the fogged dizziness worse, and one sticks in his throat.

He convulses, choking, for what feels like hours, fighting for the slightest thread of air past his clogged throat.

He falls.

* * *

He shifts awake, and instantly snaps to awareness as his arms scrape across stone. For a moment he thinks he's gone blind, but then he realizes the truth, which terrifies him even more. He's still in the damn box. He shudders, feeling the stone at his back, under his cheek, pressed against his aching side. He begins to shake, closing his eyes until it hurts and white light bursts behind the lids. His hands rise, gripping handfuls of his hair and pressing against the sides of his skull. Tears burn under his eyelids, and then slip from the corners and run down his face.

There's no way out.

The stone is cold, unmerciful, and unmovable. He can't scratch it, can't break it, not with any kind of strength that he has. It's hard to admit, but it would take someone a lot stronger than him to get him out of this hell, he knows it. He'll be in here until Aizen decides to let him out, if he _ever_ does.

Oh _god_. Will Aizen leave him in here forever? Until he wastes away, or finally dies?

His chest heaves in a shuddering sob, and his hands clench to fists, despite the agony it causes. "_Please_," he begs into the black, "_please_." He makes a wordless, pleading sound, crying it into the bloody stone walls. Nothing answers him but the sound of his own breathing, and more tears escape his eyes.

He shakes, the silence pressing down on him like the stone is molding over his form and burying him in the earth. He loses all track of time, what little he had to begin with, surrendering himself to his prison. His hands release his hair, falling to rest on the floor of his cell, as he cries into the same surface. Each breath is a shuddering inhale dragged through his mouth, nose clogging as a second testament to his pain.

"_Please_."

Each time he breathes in, his back pressing against the stone, it's a vicious reminder of where he is. He keeps his eyes closed, tightly clenched, because it's easier to bear than opening them to blackness. He can't pretend that the situation is anything but what it is, he's never been optimistic, or delusional, enough to hide in his own head. Usually he counts it as a strength, one thing he has over some of the crazier espada, but right now it's one hell of a weakness. What he would give to be able to hide inside his mind, to be able to escape the grim reality of where he is, what he's doing.

Eventually, after hours that he can't and doesn't count, the tears dry. He still trembles, fits of shakes that he can't control, but there are no more tears left in him. He can only lie there, hands throbbing at a much slower pace than his racing pulse, breath coming just as quickly. Not the blind panic of before, not the terror that had ceased his ability to breathe, but a darker, resigned fear. The fear of prey, caught in talons or claws, but saved for a different fate, for later.

_"Aizen,"_ he rasps out, begging, "_please_."

Again, there's no answer to his plea, and hysterical laughter bubbles from his throat. Of course, of _course_. What do his fucking words matter to their lord? Aizen is as close to a god as any of them will ever get, what does one buried ant's begging mean to a being like that? _Nothing_. A momentary amusement, or annoyance. His laughter cuts off sharply, suddenly.

Again, the fear rises that Aizen will simply leave him here. There are stronger espada, what does Aizen really need - or even want - from someone as weak as him? What if Aizen chooses to forget about him, to abandon him inside this coffin? How long does it take an espada to die by starvation, or dehydration? Another short burst of hysterical laughter. Will he die first, or go mad?

God, _help!_ Get him out of this fucking box, damn the price! Just let him see the moon again, or feel the wind against his skin. Fuck, let him go to another of the damn meetings, let Aizen smirk and force them all to play the fucking parts he wants them to. Just _get him out!_

He manages a cry of fear, slamming one hand against the side of the box and nearly screaming from the pain. It doesn't manage to get out of his throat as anything more than a strangled gasp, his back arching against the stone, head meeting it with a sharp crack. His eyes fly open, and fear takes another step towards true panic at the blackness that meets his sight. It shouldn't scare him, but it _does_.

He lashes out again, with the other hand this time, eyes slamming shut at the agony of impact against the stone. He gives a shattered shout, shaking, and suddenly hands are closing around his wrists, pulling him up.

His eyes snap open, only to immediately close at the bright light, and he's pulled up against something warm and breathing. His back is to what he has to assume is a chest, the other person's arms looped around his shoulders and still holding his wrists. The glare is bright even through his eyelids, and he can't stop trembling.

"Easy," murmurs a soft voice into his ear, and he tenses sharply for a moment, before shuddering into surrender.

"I'm _sorry_," he raggedly gasps out, "I'm _sorry_."

Aizen holds him closely, strong fingers rubbing small, gentle circles into the skin of his wrists. "It's alright." The deepest parts of him rebel, wanting to snap at the shinigami holding him, but the thought fades away before it can even become a true urge.

He's too worn out to fight, to terrorized to even consider aggravating the powerful man behind him. The thought of going back in that stone prison terrifies him down to his very core, quells any thought of resistance that might try and pierce the lingering fog of pain, fear, and exhaustion. The first time, when he'd actually snapped at Aizen himself, he'd spent what he's sure was days inside the stone. He has no _idea_ how Aizen found out he was claustrophobic, he's not even totally sure that _he_ knew before the shinigami forced him into the prison. But somehow, Aizen knew _just_ how to terrify him, knew just what made him tick.

He's never truly stepped out against Aizen again, not in any way that meant a damn thing, but he has so little control over his mouth that it doesn't matter. All it takes is one comment, one snarled threat against any other espada, under Aizen's watchful gaze, and here he is again.

"I've never wanted to harm you, Grimmjow," his lord says quietly.

_Liar_, he thinks, but doesn't dare to say.

Aizen's hands slide down his wrists, to his destroyed hands, and he gives a cry of pain as the shinigami straightens out his fingers. He pries his eyes open, slitting them against the light. The mess of his hands makes him vaguely nauseous, blood coating his skin, but not enough to completely hide the occasional shard of white bone. He knew he'd hurt them badly in his attempts to escape, but he had no idea he'd done _that_ much.

His lord's hands glow with white power, and for a moment he panics, before a soothing heat spreads over his injured fingers. Reiatsu is thick in the air around him, just barely pressing down against his skin. It's not the crippling, suffocating power that Aizen occasionally uses, but it's just enough to make the air an effort to drag into his lungs. He closes his eyes, unable to continue to stare as the flesh on his hands knits together, bone sliding back into its proper place.

It's sick how he can manage to find some kind of comfort in the touch, when he knows _damn_ well that the bastard behind him is the one who hurt him to begin with. He can't manage to completely ignore the feeling, but he tries not to dwell on it. He doesn't want to think right now, doesn't want to do anything but be left alone to recover. He knows when Aizen is done healing him, if his lord sticks with what he's done before, he'll be free to go. It will be over, for now.

His trembles ease as the pain does, as the lingering fear slowly turns into numbness. But some small part of him holds onto it, adding the emotions to the deeply locked down swirl of hatred and terror that's attached to the name '_Aizen_'.

The shinigami releases him, his healed hands recoiling to be held against his chest. He opens his eyes as Aizen slips away from him, the rustle of cloth telling him the other man has gotten to his feet. He stays on the floor, slightly hunched over, unwilling to look up at the combination of his savior and tormentor.

"You may leave, Grimmjow," his lord says smoothly. "Try to curb your attitude next time." It isn't a command, or even a suggestion, simply a stated fact. He will try, but he'll fail. He already knows he'll end up back in that damn stone prison again before too long, the best he can do is stay out of Aizen's way as much as possible.

There's the click of the door, and after a minute or two he manages to drag himself to his feet, carefully keeping his eyes away from the stone coffin at his feet. He turns, trying to ignore the tacky feel of blood on his hands, and now smeared over his chest as well. He still aches in a dozen spots, especially his side, but the worst of the pain is gone.

The door feels farther away than it actually is, an inverse of the walk in here, but eventually he reaches it. He pauses for a moment with his hand on the knob, breathing deeply, and then pushes it open. Thankfully, the meeting room is empty. The door shuts behind him, and instantly he feels a little better. Just being out of that room eases the tension in his shoulders, and lets him stand just a little bit taller. He crosses the room, one arm curled protectively around his stomach, and shoves his way into the main maze of corridors. Sonido takes him from there. It's not great, he's still shaky even past the numbness, but it's enough to get him to his rooms.

He opens the door to the sound of talking, laughter, and nearly slams it shut again. He doesn't want to have to put up with the questioning of his fraccion, or the pity in their eyes. Then, the bitter knowledge that his only other option to get clean is in the lower arrancar's public showers hits home, and he grits his teeth and pushes in. It takes a moment for silence to fall, but he doesn't wait. He shuts the door behind him and makes a beeline for the opposite side of the room, towards the door leading to his bathroom. None of them stop him, or say anything at all, and he firmly shuts the bathroom door behind him as he flicks the light on.

He strips out of his clothing, almost surprised by how much of his blood is on it, and turns the water in the shower on as soon as he's fully nude, his discarded clothes in a pile on the floor. The nearly scalding water is perfect, no danger to his hierro, and with grim efficiency he washes the blood off his hands, out of his hair, off his chest. It's not the first time, it won't be the last.

With the fear transitioned into numbness it's easier to move, easier to think without the pain and the terror clawing at his mind. Not that he really wants to think right now, although the lack of being able to feel is actually cushioning a lot of his reactions. They'll strike full force later, when he's far enough past that. He knows that from past experience. The bruises will only stick around for a little while, though the dark mark on his ribs, from Aizen's foot, might stay a day or two extra. He'll heal just fine.

It will be harder to shove this into the back of his mind, like the memories of all the other times. He knows his sleep over the next few days will be interrupted by waking sweating in the middle of the night, a snarl on his lips and power vibrating around him. Nightmares of being buried alive, of Aizen holding him down inside the stone until it devours him. They'll stop after those few days, if there's one thing he's _damn_ good at, it's ignoring what he doesn't want to think about, but then he'll fuck up, say something he doesn't mean to, and the cycle will start again.

If he could get away with leaving, abandoning Aizen and his toy soldiers to their war, he would in a heartbeat. But he's not delusional enough to believe that Aizen would let him get away with that, and he doesn't even want to consider about how long he'd stay in that box when his lord inevitably caught him. A shudder wracks his frame. Would Aizen risk the sanity of one of his top soldiers for the sake of an example?

_Yes_, he answers his own question. In a second, with a smile.

No one means enough to Aizen to spare them his version of wrath. _No one_. All of them are expendable.

He washes until the water runs clear, and then stands there for a time, letting the water plaster his blue hair to his skull and run down over his shoulders. Just to have a moment or two longer to stay in here, to not subject himself to the looks of his fraccion, or the eventual need to see the other espada again. In a way, Aizen is the easiest to face. It will be like nothing ever happened, as far as his lord is concerned. But everyone knows what Aizen does, the punishments he dishes out that are specifically tailored for each of his strongest soldiers, and no one has the room to sneer. All there will be is uncomfortable pity, and he hates that the most out of anything.

Even more than the lie that they are all loyal to Aizen, and not just too afraid to disobey him.

He shuts the water off, skirting his pile of bloody clothes to retrieve a towel from the wall. White, like everything else in this hellhole, but at least it's soft. He drags it over his skin, rubbing it through his hair until the strands stick up, too short to be tangled, but still a complete mess, before wrapping it around his waist. He leaves the bathroom the way it is, opening the door to leave.

He doesn't look at the cluster of his fraccion, spread across the couches to his left, but instead turns right and heads for his room. He gets there without interference, swinging the door mostly closed behind him as he tosses the towel to the floor, not bothering to turn the light on. The bed is soft, much larger than he has any real use for, and the white sheets and heavy comforter slide easily over his skin as he digs into it. He buries all but his head inside the blankets, one arm folding beneath the pillow cradled under his head and against his chest.

The blackness beneath his eyelids brings a jolting moment of fear, so he keeps his eyes open, staring blindly at the white pillow and his shadowed wall. It's not exactly a good way to fall asleep, but he's also not really sure that sleep is what he wants. He _is_ tired, exhausted, but he knows sleep will bring back the memory of the stone prison. There won't be any true rest for him anyway.

His gaze snaps down as the door slides open, and the five members of his fraccion file in. Normally he might snarl, sit up and demand to know what the _fuck_ they think they're doing, but he can't summon enough anger to pierce the fog of numbness, not even at the invasion of his sanctum. He watches silently, not truly reacting, as they shed the tops of their uniforms, and shoes, before approaching the bed. Il Forte leads, slipping beneath the covers in front of him and sliding up against him, curling against his chest.

He can feel Nakeem's larger form press against his back, and Edorad slides in past Il Forte's comparatively smaller frame. He's not totally sure where D-Roy or Shawlong end up, but he has to assume they're beyond the two larger members of his fraccion. Il Forte shifts a little closer, the bone of the blond man's mask rubbing into his skin, and he swallows.

There are no words exchanged among them, only the soft sighs and grunts of people getting comfortable. He closes his eyes for a moment, the panic easing at the feel of warm bodies around him, and the beat of other hearts around him. It's a memory of hundreds of cold nights spent in the sands of Hueco Mundo, gathered together just like this to share warmth. To stay safe, and alive. The tension eases from his muscles, and the numbness from his mind, letting him relax into the bed with a shuddering breath.

Right. His fraccion followed him long before he led them into Aizen's clutches, they're loyal to _him_, not the shinigami bastard. This is _his_ pack.

The one that doesn't ask, doesn't expect anything but what he gives. That gave their power up to help him gain more, and followed him without hesitation even after. Il Forte, Nakeem, Edorad, Shawlong, D-Roy, _these_ are the people that truly matter. They'd never pity him, would never treat him as anything less than exactly what he is. Their leader, their King.

Aizen can go to hell, the sadistic bastard. _This_ is what a family should be like, and this is the only one he'll accept.


End file.
